by C. M. Curtis
Babcock stepped through the door and the men inside heard his boots on the boardwalk as he walked casually toward Ben Houk’s livery stable.
“Jake,” said Beeman, “I want you to walk down the street and stand across from the Red Stallion—that’s where they’re congregating. If it starts looking like trouble, hotfoot it over here and let me know, but stay in the shadows.” Sharp nodded and went out the door.
Beeman barred the door behind him and moved quickly across to the door of the cellblock. It was dark inside, but he did not want to light a lamp for fear of making a target of himself or of Jeff.
“Havens?”
“Yeah.”
“We’re leaving. Step closer where I can see you.”
He heard the cot creak as Jeff got up. A second later, Jeff materialized in front of him—a shadow in the gloom. Beeman produced a pair of handcuffs and passed them through the bars. “Put those on good and tight.”
Jeff did as he was told. Beeman ordered him to hold his hands out while he checked to make sure the handcuffs were tight. He unlocked the cell door and held it as Jeff stepped through. “Walk in front of me.”
Jeff walked ahead and Beeman followed, keeping about five feet behind him. When they were in the front office, Beeman ordered him into the far corner. “Sit on the floor; we’re leaving in just a few minutes. I’m not going to handcuff you to the chair, because when we leave, we may need to leave fast, but don’t try anything, Havens, because I’ll kill you and then my problems will be over. You understand me?”
“Yeah.”
There was more light in the front office than in the cell, and Jeff watched as Beeman went to the gun rack and removed a Winchester lever action carbine. From the desk drawer he removed a box of cartridges and loaded the gun, leaving the chamber empty, ready for the first cartridge to be levered in. He then returned the rifle to the rack, threaded the chain through the lever and re-locked the padlock.
“I’ll be back in about one minute,” he said to Jeff. “You stay put.”
He opened the door and stepped through, closing it behind him. Jeff heard the door being locked from the outside.
Jeff did not stay put. As the sound of Beeman’s boot steps receded he was already moving toward the gun rack. He knew the rack was designed so the guns it held could not be taken out without the padlock being unlocked and the chain removed, but he was able to lift the butt of the Winchester up and slide it down over the bottom lip of the rack. At this point the chain caught on the lever and the gun would go no farther. Jeff raised the lever and lowered the gun at the same time, opening the chamber. The reverse action levered the first cartridge into the chamber. Again Jeff pulled the gun down and lifted the lever, ejecting the cartridge from the chamber. He repeated this cycle over and over until he had ejected all the cartridges from the magazine. Replacing the rifle, he gathered the cartridges up from the floor and slipped them behind the gun rack.
He spent a moment listening for any sound that might indicate Beeman was returning. Hearing none, he moved quickly to the desk and began opening drawers, groping in the darkness, searching by feel for what he hoped was there. Finally, at the very back of the top drawer, he felt a small metallic object—a key. At that moment he heard the sound of boots striking the boardwalk, approaching at a fast walk. Closing the drawer carefully, he slipped the key into his shirt pocket. Trying to move as quickly as possible without making noise, he started back to the corner of the room. The footsteps stopped in front of the door and Jeff heard the key being inserted just as he dropped into the corner where he had been when Beeman left.
Beeman, ever cautious, held the door open for a moment to allow light into the room. Seeing Jeff in the corner, his cuffed hands in front of him, The Sheriff quickly entered and closed the door. Just then came the sound of running boots on the boardwalk. They stopped in front of the door. There was a quick knock and Jake Sharp said urgently, “Its Jake, Alvah, you’d better leave now.”
Beeman moved quickly to the gun rack, unlocked it and removed the Winchester. “Let’s go.”
They slipped out the door and turned right, keeping close to the building. Beeman led Jeff between the sheriff’s office and the adjacent building, and as they ran, Jeff heard the angry rumbling of the mob headed toward the jail. It would have been better, he thought, if Beeman had taken time to lock the door. That way it would take the mob longer to discover the jail was empty. He appreciated what Jake Sharp had done and hoped he’d have a chance to thank him some day. It was good to know he wasn’t totally friendless.
When they reached the trees Babcock was waiting with the horses. Ben Houk was there too, sitting in the shadows. Jeff recognized one of the horses as Billy Dell’s buckskin. He had sent it back to Marcellin, but not long after, Reef had shown up, leading the horse and carrying a note from Catherine. She wrote that Jeff had saved her son’s life and she would consider it a personal favor if Jeff would keep the horse and saddle. He did.
Babcock lifted the bulky saddle-pack that held provisions for the trip and tied it behind the sheriff’s saddle. Beeman took the reins from Babcock and mounted, motioning for Jeff to do likewise. Babcock made his selection from one of the two remaining horses. “Who else is going with us?” he asked, indicating the riderless animal.
“No one,” said the sheriff, “and you’re not going either. I want you to ride around to the south end of town, then get on Main Street and fog it out of town. Go south. I want them to hear your two horses running. When you get a couple of miles away, get rid of the spare horse and ride back to town slow. If you meet anybody on the trail, tell them you were with me and I sent you back. Don’t tell anyone the truth until day after tomorrow. That’ll throw ‘em off long enough for us to get a good lead. “I need you to get word to Jim Marcellin too, that Webb ain’t Webb.” He shot a meaningful look at Jeff as he pulled the folded wanted poster out of his pocket. “Get word to Emil Tannatt too. He’ll take it hard when he finds out there’s no rustler’s pass.” He looked at Jeff again, “I don’t know what you were trying to pull, Havens, but I hope you burn in hell for giving those people false hope.”
Jeff sat in stoic silence.
“All right, Sheriff,” said Babcock. “Good luck.” And he rode out of the trees leading the empty-saddled horse.
Beeman turned to Ben Houk who had not spoken.
“Where do you stand, Ben?”
“I’m with you, I can’t stomach a mob.”
“I’m trusting you, Ben. If you tell anyone about this I’ll have a passel of trouble on my hands.”
“You have my word, Alvah.”
“That’s enough for me,” said Beeman. He turned to Jeff, “Let’s go, we’ll move slow for the first while.”
Jeff heard shouts coming from Main Street, and he knew the mob had discovered he was gone. The sounds of running horses were heard from the south end of town, and the pitch of the shouting changed from angry to excited. More running hoofs—the mob was in pursuit.
Beeman held to the trees for about two miles, riding along the bank of a small stream. When they reached the point where the stream intersected with the main trail, they stopped the horses and listened. Hearing no sounds, Beeman spurred the horses down the trail at a faster pace. Hours later they rounded the mountain, and the trail gradually turned east and later, south. Jeff finally relaxed, confident they weren’t being followed.
For hours the two men rode in the darkness, Beeman holding his own reins with his right hand, and Jeff’s with his left. They rode in silence, stopping only occasionally to rest the horses. Beeman finally called a halt in the early morning hours, and after a simple meal, he tied Jeff’s feet together. They slept for a few hours, after which they were in the saddle again. At no time did the Sheriff remove the handcuffs from Jeff’s wrists. They camped that night in the shadow of a large, dome-topped boulder that Jeff recognized. He knew he must make his move before they were too far from this place. He patted his shirt pocket and felt the small, reassuring b
ulge of the stolen key.
Beeman woke him early the next morning before it was light. They breakfasted in the dark, saddled up and were soon on the trail again, with Beeman still holding the reins to Jeff’s horse in his left hand. Jeff slipped the handcuff key out of his shirt pocket and quietly unlocked the cuff from his left hand. With the cuffs hanging from his right wrist, he urged the buckskin forward, coming almost parallel to Beeman’s horse. Leaning forward in the saddle, he swept his right arm down, swinging the cuffs like a mace, striking the reins and jerking them out of the unprepared Beeman’s hands. At the same instant he spurred his horse, leaned forward in the saddle and gathered up the bridle reins. Behind him he heard Beeman’s shout of warning and the sound of the sheriff working the lever of the Winchester, followed almost immediately by a click. Beeman swore a surprised oath and quickly worked the lever again. Again the hammer fell on an empty chamber. It took one more time before Beeman came to the realization that he was holding an empty rifle. He pulled his pistol and fired twice, but Jeff was already out of sight in the pre-dawn gloom.
Beeman was sure Jeff did not have a gun, so he threw caution aside and pursued.
In the darkness he lost the sound of the receding hoof beats of the buckskin so he stayed on the trail, hoping Jeff would do the same. He knew there was a good chance Jeff would change directions, but there was nothing else he could do until there was enough light to read trail sign. He considered discarding the heavy saddle bags full of provisions, so as to spare his mount, but decided against it. Instead, he allowed the horse to set its own pace rather than pushing it as he had been.
Beeman didn’t have long to wait: the sun was just over the horizon and in a few minutes it became light enough for tracking. He was relieved to see Jeff had stuck to the trail. The sheriff pushed his horse into a run. He disliked doing it, but not nearly as much as he disliked the thought of returning to town and explaining to the unhappy citizenry how he had allowed the prisoner to escape. He could not resist a wry smile, however, when he thought of how Jeff had accomplished his escape. He had easily deduced what Jeff had done in the short time he was left alone in the sheriff’s office. ”He’s a smart one,“ he thought grudgingly, ”I’ll give him that. If I catch him again I’ll be a lot more careful.”
When Jeff’s trail turned into the mouth of a deep arroyo, Beeman became concerned. Here he would be entering terrain that would afford numerous opportunities for ambush. After giving it some thought, however, he decided to proceed with speed rather than caution, for while Jeff had demonstrated admirable resourcefulness, the fact remained that he was unarmed. There had been no guns, loaded or unloaded, left unlocked while Jeff was out of his cell. Moreover, Beeman reasoned, if Jeff had been in possession of a gun, he would have used it to escape.
The sheriff was surprised when, after what seemed like miles of twists and turns, the narrow, convoluted arroyo opened into the small, lush basin where the rustlers had built the brush corral. He indulged himself and his horse in a refreshing drink from the sweet, flowing waters of the stream. As he surveyed his surroundings with increased scrutiny, he noticed for the first time, the mouth of the pass, which, in the early morning shadows, he had previously thought to be merely a hollow place in the rock wall. Beeman realized immediately what he was seeing and suddenly a number of things became clear in his mind, and one of them was that Jeff Havens was not a rustler. He had made no effort to hide his trail though he must have known Beeman would follow him; and Beeman was sure Havens had led him intentionally to this place. If Havens were a rustler this would be the last place he would come while he was being pursued.
The sheriff remounted and spurred his horse forward into the maw of the dark, narrow canyon, almost without apprehension. Later, having passed through the mountain, he chuckled gleefully, “Never thought I’d be glad to have one of my prisoners escape.”
Jeff’s trail led him through the confusing snarl of hills and canyons, and brush-choked washes of the brakes, and the sheriff was glad he was being led. “A man could get lost in here for a week,” he muttered.
He was relieved when he finally emerged and saw the open range before him. From here he could find his own way home. But rather than turning north toward the ranches and the populated area of the valley, Jeff’s trail led southward for about half a mile, where it entered a fast moving creek that flowed directly out of the brakes, fed by a thousand small streams. Beeman scanned the opposite bank of the creek, looking for tell-tale signs of wetness that would indicate where Jeff’s horse had left the water. There were none. No doubt Jeff had walked his horse up the stream, back into the brakes where there would be countless tributary streams, any one of which would take him deeper into the hills. Beeman knew he could follow the tracks in the mud and gravel of the stream bed, but every tributary would slow him down. The two salient facts of the matter were that Jeff Havens no longer wished to be followed, and Beeman no longer wished to conduct him to a place where he would stand trial and be hanged. He had liked Jeff Havens from the first night he had met him, and Catherine Marcellin liked him too. That fact meant a lot to Beeman.
Moreover, he had disliked and mistrusted Tom Stewart from their first encounter, but there had been a wanted poster and his duty had been clear. But now things were different. Havens was free and had led him to the rustlers pass. There could be only one reason for that. Suddenly he had the unshakable sensation that Jeff Havens was watching him from somewhere in the hills. He smiled.
He pondered the situation for a few moments and came to a decision. Dismounting, he untied the heavy pack and set it on the ground beside the horse. For the space of several minutes he stood there in mental debate. Then he did yet another unusual thing. Unbuckling his gun belt, he let it fall onto the pack. He hated to do it—it was his best pistol. The front sight had been removed and the trigger pull and barrel had both been shortened. It was made for quick, close work, and Beeman, suspecting what Jeff had in mind to do, knew he may soon have need of it. Leaving the pack and gunbelt lying on the ground, he mounted, swung his horse around and headed north.
Chapter 17
Jim Marcellin was in a foul mood. The day had turned gray and chilly, making his wounds ache. The leg wound was starting to look inflamed, and Catherine had poulticed it and advised him he had been doing too much and she was going to make sure he engage in nothing more strenuous than eating and reading for a solid week.
The main cause, however, of Marcellin’s ill humor was the unwelcome news which had been brought the previous night by Orville Babcock regarding Bob Webb’s arrest. Babcock had said Sheriff Beeman was sure of Webb’s identity as Jeff Havens, who was wanted for rustling and murder. Marcellin reasoned that if this was true, there was no reason to believe the story Webb had told them about the rustler’s pass. Now all hopes were dashed of finding a remedy for the rustling problem in the near future.
Marcellin was sitting on the front porch of the house with his feet propped on a footstool and a blanket over his legs, looking at the sunless sky and pondering the situation when he noticed a rider approaching. The man was handsome and well dressed and sat straight and easy in the saddle. Even from a distance his demeanor displayed his self-assurance. He stopped in front of the house and swung down from the saddle. Smiling easily he said, “I’m looking for Jim Marcellin.”
“You’re looking at his mortal remains,” said Marcellin, unwilling to feign cheerfulness even for a visitor.
The stranger laughed and stepped closer, extending his hand.
My name is Tom Stewart.
Marcellin shook the proffered hand.
“A little under the weather today, I see,” said Stewart. “Hope it’s nothing serious.”
“I’ll be fine. What can I do for you, Mr. Stewart?”
“I’m interested in buying land here in the valley.”
Catherine came through the open front door, carrying a tray with a steaming teapot, some muffins, and two cups.
She set the tray down on
a table beside her son’s chair.
Marcellin introduced Catherine to Tom Stewart, and the two exchanged greetings. “Mr. Stewart is in the market to buy land in the valley,” explained Marcellin.
“Yes, I’ve heard,” said Catherine, meeting Tom Stewart’s gaze squarely. “I’ve also heard he’s paying far less than what the land is worth.”
Stewart smiled patiently, and when he spoke it was in the condescending way he used whenever he addressed a woman. “Land in any area,” he explained, “is worth at any particular time, what the market in that area will bear—which, in many cases is different from what was originally paid for the land. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Catherine nodded stiffly.
“Land,” Stewart continued, “is generally purchased as part of a money making venture. The margin of profit that is anticipated is the criterion that is used in determining whether the cost of the land is justified. I hope I’m not confusing you.”
“Go on, Mr. Stewart,” said Catherine in an icy tone.
“If the venture is unsuccessful and no other profitable use can be made of the land, then obviously the value of the land decreases significantly, do you follow?”
“My mother is an intelligent woman,” said Marcellin. “I’m sure she understands what you’re saying.”
“The question is,” observed Catherine, “if the land in this valley has become so worthless, why are you so interested in buying it?”
“Speculation, Mrs. Marcellin; I am a speculator. It is my hope that in the future, certainly not in the near future, but maybe ten years or so down the road, the situation will improve, and ranching in this valley will again become a profitable venture, in which case I shall be able to sell the land and make a profit. But speculation can be risky and I could lose money too. And there’s another disadvantage to speculation: there is no quick turnover on the investment. One must be able to afford to sink money into something that may not be productive for a long time. If the ranchers in this valley had that kind of money they would be able to afford to wait until the situation improves . . . but they don’t. As for you, Mr. Marcellin, I don’t know what your situation is. You may or may not be interested in doing business with me.”
